


bloodlust

by deuxexmycroft, michi_thekiller



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampire!John, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft, https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/pseuds/michi_thekiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows what John needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bloodlust

**Author's Note:**

> Michi says: An incidental collab with my beautiful perfect [ Archia](http://archiaart.tumblr.com) (she didn't know it was happening, it happened anyway.) 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Reblog link is here!

 

John stood stock still in the middle of the living room, his worried eyes fixed firmly on Sherlock’s and determinedly  _not_  on the bared wrist Sherlock was resting enticingly on the couch armrest. “You don’t know what you’re offering me,” he said quietly. Sherlock observed him licking his lips with a tinge more thirst than his usual nervous tic.

"I know exactly what I’m offering," Sherlock countered, relaxing further onto the couch, body language purposefully seductive as he sank back onto the cushions. With a sigh he rolled up his other sleeve, leaving both pale arms bare from wrist to elbow, for John’s hungry gaze. A shiver of reward teased through him when John’s eyes flicked down, if only for a second. "You look haggard. You’ve been living off of rats." 

John’s tired eyes clenched shut rather than dare look at him, but Sherlock could see his nostrils flare as he breathed in Sherlock’s fresh scent. He’d never been this bad before. He’d left himself far too long without feeding, and Sherlock’s brows knotted with concern.

"You must be starving."

"You don’t understand," John said shakily, and Sherlock could see flashes of sharp white as he spoke that hadn’t been there earlier. Despite his protests, his fangs were extending. Instinct warring with morality. "You’re human. You have never felt this sort of hunger." 

Sherlock frowned. “You’re worried you won’t be able to stop.”

John cringed, but met Sherlock’s eyes again. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he confessed. His nervousness was palpable. 

He must have hurt someone before, by accident. All Sherlock knew about John’s vampirism was that the curse had been unwanted, and recent, from Afghanistan. He was barely a year old, still grappling with his new instincts.

Sherlock found him endlessly fascinating.

"Come closer," Sherlock said, gesturing John to join him on the couch. 

John stepped forward, tentatively, his eyes dropping, predator-like, to Sherlock’s bared skin. How tuned were his senses? Could he hear the pulse of Sherlock’s blood? Could he hear Sherlock’s heart beating a tinge faster than normal? Fear, excitement, and a hint of arousal at the promise of a novel form of fluid exchange — surely John could see that Sherlock wanted to experience this just as much as he did, albeit for entirely different reasons. 

"You won’t hurt me," Sherlock promised. "You couldn’t."

John sank down on the couch next to him, his jaw open, fierce fangs fully extended and distorting the ‘o’ of his mouth. Some of the soft humanity had left his face, leaving something leaner, more animalistic. His eyes, sharper now, were greedily fixed on Sherlock’s proffered wrist. His pink mouth dripped with salivation.

"Tell me when to stop," John whispered croakily, before leaning across and slicing his fangs through Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock gasped, first in pain, and then in shock as a wave of pleasure rushed through him.

His eyes flickered shut.

 

* * *

 

John moaned softly, a low, reverberant sound that started deep in his throat and spiralled out of his mouth.

The taste of Sherlock’s blood unfolded upon John’s tongue like a flower slowly opening, petal by petal. It was rich and hot and complex, both sweet and savoury. It flooded his mouth, slid velvety down his throat.

Rats’ blood was weak and thin, was utter trash compared to this. It could sustain but never satisfy. It had been a long, long time - about a year - since John had tasted human blood. He had struggled through each craving, shaking and shivering, sweating cold like an addict. Time and abstinence had dulled the memory of the taste, but even now John knew it had never been as good as this. Sherlock’s blood was like heady, thick wine; like hot, meaty stew on a winter’s day.

John had never tasted anything so delicious. He sucked it down in greedy gulps, strong pulls of his mouth, tongue licking, flickering over the wound to encourage the steady flow of blood. He nuzzled against the skin of Sherlock’s wrist and breathed him in deep. Sherlock smelled so good that John shuddered with it, with hunger and with want.

Sherlock had always smelled so good; that was part of the problem. He had smelled so good from the moment that John had met him, could smell him across the laboratory at Bart’s, warm and enticing underneath all the caustic chemical odours of formaldehyde and disinfectant. He should have stayed away, he knew, but there was a part of John that chased gunfire and danger the way most people chased riches and dreams, and when it came to Sherlock his will was weak. His body was willing. He could not resist the magnetic pull of him.

Now it was too late. John fed messily, noisily, without thought. The taste of Sherlock’s blood made a glutton of him; the wet sounds of feeding punctuated with whimpers of pleasure. Sherlock’s hand rested, warm and comforting, upon his back. John felt lit up from the inside, throat and stomach and intestines aglow with pure undistilled genius. It coursed like pressurised neon through his veins.  He wanted to burrow into Sherlock’s flesh, delicately roll a vein between his teeth. He imagined himself at Sherlock’s throat, lapping at his carotid. How easily his teeth could tear through Sherlock’s throat. His mouth would fill with the wonderful, hot gush of blood and John could drink him in, deep and long, until that awful thirst was finally quenched, and he could drink some more, until he could feel the faint flutter of a pulse struggling for life, until Sherlock’s limbs went weak, could drink until he had consumed him, all of him, to his last drop of blood, to his last dying breath —  

John tore himself away, panting, with horror in his eyes and nausea in his throat. His stomach, his whole body, glowed damnably warm with satisfaction.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Sherlock said. His voice was strangely rough, and he sounded somewhat dazed, like someone who had only just woken from a very good dream. It wasn’t until John lifted his head that he realised that Sherlock’s fingers were tangled in his hair, as Sherlock had been petting him while he fed.

“I could have killed you,” John said, recoiling back into himself. Sherlock’s wrist was still bleeding. John bit his own tongue quickly, and then his lip, licking over the wound until the mix of vampiric saliva and blood staunched the flow of blood. The wound closed, skin knitting itself back together. 

“But you didn’t,” Sherlock said. He was breathing hard at the drag of John’s tongue over his wrist. John, unable to help himself, licked up the last remnants of Sherlock’s blood from his skin. He sucked at the closed wound until the area shone wet with his saliva.

“I wanted to,” John confessed, once he’d pulled away. And he did, he did, he would have revelled in it before the regret destroyed him. He would have licked at the ragged edges of Sherlock’s torn-open throat and wished that he could have done it all over again. Creatures like him ought to be locked away.

Sherlock’s fingers were still tangled in his hair, keeping him from going too far. John looked up and expected - wanted - the fear and horror in Sherlock’s eyes, the damning accusation of  _monster._   

Sherlock’s pupils were dilated, pale irises almost completely eclipsed by black. The smell of his arousal hung heavy in the air between them.

“I need you to look at me,” Sherlock said, slowly, and tugged John close. John could feel the puff of Sherlock’s warm, living breath, over the wetness of his own lips. His body froze, still as stone. His chest clenched, and his heart squeezed and jumped a few times with fresh, borrowed blood, in memory of what it was like to pound.  

“I trust you,” Sherlock breathed, and then he closed the distance between them, which, although small, had seemed previously insurmountable. Until now, until this very moment, when Sherlock’s mouth pressed against John’s, sealing them together in a kiss.

John held his breath out of habit, felt himself resist before he melted. He opened his mouth, lips warm with Sherlock’s blood, warming more with Sherlock’s mouth upon them. Sherlock’s tongue slipped between his lips, ran over the sharp points of John’s fangs, delicate and teasing. John kissed him back, then, tongues sliding wetly over one another. Blood and saliva smeared between them, mixed together, inseparable. It was a deep sort of kiss, a soul-searing sort of kiss. The blood, as they say, is the life, but John thought that he might have tasted eternity in that moment, and lost himself in the hot depths of Sherlock’s mouth.

 


End file.
